


A Neighborly Mission

by redpenny



Series: 'A Neighborly...' Series [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Alternate Universe - No Werewolves, Awkward Sex, Bad Sex, Body Image, Body Worship, Chubby Kink, Chubby Stiles Stilinski, Established Relationship, Firefighter Derek Hale, M/M, Teasing, Timestamp, Weight Gain, Weight Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:01:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22520689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redpenny/pseuds/redpenny
Summary: Stiles eyes Derek's trim waist resentfully as he wipes the sweat off his own forehead."I'm too fat for sex," he repeats.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Series: 'A Neighborly...' Series [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1548832
Comments: 6
Kudos: 223





	A Neighborly Mission

**Author's Note:**

> In [A Neighborly Confession](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22009960), Derek says, "I like that we have to adjust things in bed for your stomach."
> 
> Here's the backstory I couldn't resist. It takes place shortly after [A Neighborly Christmas Eve](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21416653).

A week and a half and more than a few liaisons later, Derek offers to bottom.

"Just because I'm a versatile bi guy doesn't mean you have to be," Stiles tells him.

"I would hope I don't have to be bi," Derek says.

A few minutes and a short walk down the hallway later, Stiles says, "Just to get this out there, I'm not going to last very long."

"No?" Derek sits down at the edge of the bed. He squeezes Stiles's ass through his jeans, pulling him in to stand between his legs. "Didn't realize you had a problem with stamina."

"Dude, I'm not going to prematurely ejaculate." At least Stiles hopes not. "I have plenty of _stamina_."

"Do you?"

"I have plenty of that kind of stamina," Stiles amends. "But I'm a little out of shape, in case you didn't notice."

A smirk twitches at Derek's lips. "I might've noticed."

"Rude." Stiles shoves at Derek's shoulder.

It's not like he hasn't topped before. He has. Plenty of times. Maybe more with girls than guys but he knows how to find a prostate with his dick. He's not insecure about performing.

He just hasn't been this out of shape before. Something he's reminded of every time he's had to haul himself up the stairs to his seventh-floor apartment. Hell, he's been feeling every pound of his holiday weight just on the single flight up to Derek's apartment.

Thanks to Derek and his "Firefighter of the Year, 2016" fitness, however, they've been having far more athletic sex than Stiles should probably be allowed. The comparison between their topping abilities is going to be inevitable, and not in Stiles's favor.

As much as he's looking forward to getting his dick some action — and he's already thought up a dozen things he wants to try, just on the way to the bedroom — he figures it's best to set expectations.

"I'm just setting expectations," Stiles explains. "I'm not an athlete."

"It'll be a workout, then." Derek gives his love handles a squeeze. "You said you wanted to start working out."

"I said I _needed_ to work out, not that I _wanted_ to," Stiles corrects him with a huff. "Don't get your hopes up. I'm not actually going to be your plus one at the gym."

"No? I've got some guest passes saved up." Derek says, looking amused. He slips his hands up under Stiles's t-shirt, and pushes it up and off him. His eyes rake over Stiles's bare skin, and Stiles fights the urge to suck his tummy in.

Sleeping with a guy with an obvious fat kink isn't the worst, but sometimes Stiles thinks nostalgically of lovers who didn't protest when he tried to turn off the lights.

He says, a bit defensive, "Dude, maintaining this voluptuous bod requires giving any and all treadmills a wide berth."

"I can see that," Derek says. As he slides his hands over Stiles's chest and belly, he adds, "You should probably stick to only working out in the bedroom, then."

At least having the lights on gets Stiles a consolation prize in the form of six feet of naked, preternatural gorgeousness spread out on the bed for him to ogle.

Derek's cock is beautiful, flushed and hard with a bead of pre-cum at the tip. It's set off by a perfect V-line, narrow hips, and thighs thick with muscle. His abs ripple in the lamplight as he twists for lube and condoms from the bedside table.

By the time Derek declares Stiles's slow and thorough prep job complete — Stiles has long fingers and knows how to use them — and wraps impatient legs around his waist, Stiles has forgotten any qualms he might have had about topping. All he cares about is getting inside.

Except.

He doesn't get inside.

He _tries_ to.

He tries _harder_.

The head of his cock's barely in.

He adjusts the angle, and tries again. 

Derek tightens thighs around him. "Come on, Stiles. I'm ready."

"You think I'm not?" Stiles mutters, frustrated.

His stomach is squishing against Derek. Hardly an unusual occurence.

But it's just not squishing _enough_.

Stiles sucks in as best he can. He reaches between them and tries to push his stomach in with his hand.

His other arm strains with the effort of holding himself up, and he's going to need to breathe eventually. The position's not exactly sustainable. But that doesn't even matter, because he's still barely halfway in.

"Stiles," Derek says. 

Stiles glances up at him.

Derek's eyes flick, with pained impatience, to where Stiles still has a hand on his own stomach. "Something wrong?"

It's hitting Stiles how embarrassing this situation actually is.

"This isn't going to work," he mutters.

"Stiles?"

"Dude, I'm too fat." Stiles can't meet Derek's eyes. He pulls out. He's not even all that hard anymore. He tosses the condom away.

Derek's brow creases. He pushes himself up to sit next to Stiles. His cock bobs up against his abs. Stiles eyes his trim waist resentfully as he wipes the sweat off his own forehead.

"I'm too fat for sex," he repeats.

"You're not," Derek says.

"Dude, don't know how you missed it, but this thing," Stiles slaps his gut, "was in the way."

"No, it wasn't." Derek clearly doesn't get it.

"Well, last I checked," Stiles continues, getting annoyed, "'just the tip' was only sexy if you're a sleazy teenage boy trying to seduce virgins in an 80s rom-com." 

"What are you saying? That you couldn't fuck me because your belly's in the way?" Derek frowns at Stiles's stomach. "But you're not even that big." 

"Obviously I am," Stiles bristles, wrapping a defensive arm around himself. 

Derek has been evasive about whether he's even been with guys as big as Stiles. But seeing how surprised he is about this situation makes Stiles even more suspicious that the answer's no. Or maybe he's only been with better proportioned guys than Stiles. Guys who don't add five pounds on their waistline for every one that goes everywhere else.

Because he's clearly never been with a guy with a gut too big for sex before.

Not that Stiles was exactly expecting this humiliation, either.

The last time he'd topped with a guy, this certainly hadn't been a problem. And he'd been well into adding a fourth freshman fifteen — the senior year edition — to his pot belly by then. He knows he's put on a few pounds since then. But it's maybe twenty at the most. And his new desk job spare tire hadn't been an issue the last time he'd topped with a girl.

And that wasn't _that_ long ago.

Stiles pokes at his stomach, grimacing. It's still puffed out from too many Christmas cookies.

Maybe it's twenty-five pounds now.

He grabs for a sheet to wrap around his waist.

"Don't." Derek tugs at the sheet, keeping him from covering up. "You look good."

"What, does your fat fetish extend to me being too fat to fuck you?" Stiles grumbles.

"I don't have a fetish," Derek says. "And you're not."

"Oh, I'm not? My mistake. Are we actually having sex right now? I must have missed it."

"You're not too fat, Stiles," Derek insists, hazel eyes wide and exasperatingly earnest. "You're not too fat for anything."

"Thirty-inch waists."

Derek's brow creases in confusion.

"Jeans with thirty-inch waists." Stiles ticks it off on a finger. "Extra-large flannels. The suit for Lydia's wedding. My old favorite hoodie. Jeans with _forty_ -inch waists —"

Derek sighs. "Those are all clothes."

"Fine," Stiles snaps. Derek hadn't even had the decency to act surprised at the "forty". "How about sit-ups, then? Push-ups? Pull-ups? Running a mile?" He keeps ticking them off. "Scott's cheap kitchen chair? Sleeping on my stomach?"

"Stiles —"

But Stiles is just getting wound up. "And I'm too fat to top, _obviously_ —"

The " _obviously_ " comes out muffled by Derek's lips. Stiles shoves him back. He's not so cliched as to be shut up by a kiss.

"Stiles," Derek says. He cups Stiles's cheek with a hand. "You're not too fat to top."

When Stiles tries to speak, Derek interrupts him with another kiss.

"We'll try again," he says.

Stiles opens his mouth. Then closes it. He looks down at himself, defeated.

"We'll try again after I lose my holiday weight."

Derek pulls back and looks him up and down. "You don't need to."

"Dude —"

"You have a really nice body right now," he says. "If you've been eating too much lately, it just means we need a different position for your stomach."

Stiles snorts, bitter. "You don't have to pretend that isn't a mood-killer, you know."

"You're just bigger here than we thought." Derek touches the mound of Stiles's belly, tilting his head curiously. "Why would it ruin the mood to change positions?"

Stiles shoots him an incredulous look.

"Stiles." Derek looks confused. "Did you forget that I actually _like_ that you have a belly?"

"I didn't forget," Stiles bristles. He's just pretty sure that chubby chasing ends when being too fat for sex begins.

But Derek must not know the difference, because he just asks, "Then will you work with me?"

"Work with you?" Stiles repeats, skeptical.

"Yeah." Derek nudges a hand under Stiles's lower belly, where it pushes onto his thighs. "I want to know what works for you. For your body."

Stiles looks down. He's can't see his lower belly, not with how big the top of it's gotten. But he can feel how doughy it is in Derek's hand.

He bites his lip. "Because I'm fat."

Derek meets his eyes. "Because you're fat. And because I want to make you feel good."

Derek nudges his belly up, lifting it. There shouldn't be anything to lift at all. Let alone so _much_ to lift that Derek shifts closer to use a second hand.

Stiles lets out an embarrassed sound.

Derek kisses him quiet. Cradling Stiles's stomach in his hands, he gives it a gentle knead. It's as if he's trying to work out how heavy Stiles's stomach is. Puzzle out where the fat will fit between them.

It's embarrassing.

But it's also, well, exactly how Stiles's lower belly best likes to be touched.

"Derek," Stiles whines.

"You're sexy," Derek says quietly. He kisses Stiles's jaw and his knuckles brush against Stiles's cock under his belly. It's no longer tucked away in shame, but chubbing up with Derek's attentions.

" _Derek_."

"I think you're really sexy," Derek repeats, kissing down his neck. "I want you. Tell me you still want this."

"Fine." Stiles heaves a put-upon sigh. "Me and my fat ass will work with you, dude.

"I think it's really more your belly that —"

"Don't make me change my mind."

Stiles is usually the creative one in bed. It's his jam. Which means he's clearly off his game today.

They don't even need a different position.

The solution, when they get to it, is obvious. And easy. A couple pillows, a little repositioning. A little communication. And suddenly Stiles isn't too fat for missionary anymore.

He could probably add quite a few inches to his waistline and there'd still be enough room.

Stiles collapses, exhausted, next to Derek. He reaches for the covers, but then decides he's too hot and sweaty to cover up. He hasn't gotten a workout like that in a while. He's going to be more sore than Derek in the morning.

Not that he even did most of the work. His original insecurity over how unfit he's gotten hadn't even mattered. It turns out that Derek's muscles are good for more than just topping.

He turns to grin at Derek.

"That was great, dude."

"Yeah."

"Brilliant, even."

Derek nods.

"Thanks for letting me stick my dick all the way in you this time," Stiles tells him with utmost sincerity.

"You're ridiculous." Derek's lips twitch.

"I do my best." Stiles bends an arm up under the back of his head, relaxing. Then glances down when he feels Derek rests a hand on his stomach. His middle definitely hadn't used to rise up like this when he was lying on his back. It didn't used to wobble this much, either, he's pretty sure.

But Stiles is too sated right now to be too bothered. Plus, his belly's getting accustomed to a little attention after sex.

When he looks back up, Derek is giving him a pensive look.

He doesn't say anything, though. Just gently rubs down Stiles's belly, and then idly dips his fingers into the pool of his own cum, over Stiles's lower belly.

Stiles licks his lips, then grabs for Derek's wrist. He brings his hand to his mouth so he can suck down a finger.

"Greedy," Derek says, watching him intently.

Stiles hums an agreement. He pulls off one finger with a pop so he can turn to the next.

"I'm hungry," he complains once he licks the last bit off. "It's getting late. And you made me exercise."

Derek just gives him a soft look. He says, "I'll take you to dinner."


End file.
